


Other Tales of Watson's Woes

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Joanlock - Freeform, Watson's Woes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 14,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7361593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>31 stories (plus 1 bonus) based on prompts for Watson's Woes July Fic Prompt. <br/>-----------------<br/>I’m sending out a huge thank you to all of you who read and kudo’d and commented!  You guys kept me motivated. And a special big shout out to amindamazed and time-converges, my comrade in arms from last year who I think commented on all 31 chapters!!! Thank you! And thanks to gardnerhill and the eh team and farmgirl1964 and Julie and Jane and Angela and Karen and possibility221 and all the Watson’s woes folk and there are so many more …. Thank you all so much!<br/>There are maybe one or two of the stories which I may pull out and continue and then there are those that really should be quietly buried and never seen again. I learned quite a few things. Plus I got to read some truly excellent fics that I ordinarily would not have had a chance to read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spotted Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: "It started innocently enough ... " JWP01 " 'Tis But a Scratch" Watson hides something from Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Spotted dick is a traditional British pudding made from suet, or mutton fat. The suet is mixed with other ingredients, such as baking soda, flour, molasses, corn syrup, or nutmeg. This creates a pastry dough, to which raisins or dry fruit are added, hence the dessert’s “spots.” The dough is traditionally either steamed or boiled, and is often served with a custard sauce."

It started innocently enough. 

Fresh from his relapse and with some downtime on his hands, he took to baking as he was wont to do. Sherlock baked his quota of Yorkshire puddings and then moved on to other delicacies. 

"What is that?" She asked, squinting at the lumpy globs on the kitchen counter.

"Spotted Dick. Care for a nibble?" He waggled his eyebrows and managed to control the smirk but just barely. 

Joan rolled her eyes and pursed her lips at him, "Seriously, what is it?"

"Spotted Dick. Suet, raisins, molasses ... " he stopped enumerating ingredients and dropped the adolescent attitude when he saw the look of disgust on her face. "It's alright, Watson. I'm just baking for the sake of ... of comfort, I suppose. Used to be a favorite. I'll toss the rest in with the other puddings."

The lost, little boy tone and the look in his eyes gripped at her heart. "No. Let me try it. I've heard of it and always wondered what it was like."

He got her a plate. 

What it was like was indescribably disgusting. Suet is suet she thought no matter how many raisins you toss in. Joan stopped herself from spewing out her own torrent of juvenile comments, references and comparisons between the dessert and it's shared namesake. Instead she swallowed and smiled a false smile at him and cooed, "This is really good." And took another bite.

Sherlock brightened for a second then examined her features more closely. "You don't have to eat it. I won't be insulted if you don't like it."

And that's when it started - the lie - it started rolling down hill and picking up speed. "Are you kidding, I love this. It is really, really good." And for the sake of that bright look in his eye, if even for a second, she had two horrible servings.

For the next six months, it became his treat for her - he'd make it at least once a month and she'd gobble it down with yummy sounds for emphasis. She thought about telling him the truth but with each mouthful of deceit it became less and less a possibility. 

This day, this rainy, grim and steel-grey day, had been particularly gruesome in a petty sort of way. No major crimes or drama, just a series of small catastrophes from ruining new shoes in a mud puddle to losing her keys in the brownstone to being stood up by a client and now, sitting on her reading glasses and splitting them in two. 

Sherlock walked into the library with a treat for her.

Watson stared at the plate he brought her and the happy look on his face and made a decision. She had to tell him. She could not face another Spotted Dick. 

"Go on," he offered her the plate again. "I made it just for you."

She took the plate with a sigh and motioned for him to sit next to her on the sofa. "Sherlock ...." She put the plate down on the floor and stared at Angus on the mantle, trying to to find the proper way to tell him. "Sherlock, I'm afraid I've been less than honest with you."

"Oh?" He watched her face.

"Yes. ....about the Spotted Dick ... I ... I don't know how to say this but ..."

"You find it horrid and atrocious and gag it down each time I present you with a serving?"

"No. I mean ... What?" She looked up at him, "Yes. How ..." His face had that accusatory, insufferable "I knew it look."

"I was beginning to wonder how many more of those glomps of puddings you'd force down before you confessed."

Her face was on its way to red with anger, "You've known all this time I hated these things and kept making them and kept making me eat them?" She clenched her teeth and punched him in the arm, "Sherlock, how could you?"

"I did no such thing. You chose to eat them. I never forced you." He rubbed his upper arm. She really packed a wallop when she was angry.

"You are a sadist!" She punched his arm again. He wisely stood up and offered her an explanation. 

"I realized you hated it after the first bite, but you ate it and asked for more. I saw that you were doing it as a kindness and I was touched. Deeply touched. But then I wondered just how long would you be willing to keep up the charade, how much did you care, at what point would your falseness break under the weight of so much Spotted Dick? And it became a sort of an experiment, a game of sorts I suppose."

She stared at him, suffused by anger, incapable of forming coherent words. Joan rose slowly to her full height and Sherlock took a step back.

"Come Watson, it's not that bad ... And really you are equally responsible. You were lying, been lying for over six months now... " his voice faded to nothing as she took a step forward.

"Yes. I lied because I cared, and you will note the past tense, "cared" about you and your feelings. I won't make that mistake again. If I were you Sherlock, I'd watch my back ..." The look of horror on his face at her words almost brought a smile to her face, almost made six months worth of Spotted Dick consumption worthwhile. 

She turned and walked out of the room.


	2. A flying leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP#2: Roll The Dice: Have a character take a risk, whether it's a calculated or a foolhardy one.

The weapon came no closer than three feet from his arched form. The man's accuracy was obviously impaired by opiates. The suspect lunged again, knife thrust forward, and Sherlock once more took a step back, his body curved into a "C" to avoid the blade on the off chance that he miscalculated the man's level of intoxication. 

The roof's edge was quickly approaching on his right side. Sherlock peered down the three stories into the alley in time to see Watson and Bell, coats flaring behind them, run in, their eyes trained on the rooftop. He took a breath; that complicated things, he thought. He would have preferred to do this without an audience. 

Sherlock stood up straight and addressed his would be assailant. "Alright Charles. I've had enough. You are on your own." 

Charles' face barely had time to express his lack of understanding before Sherlock turned and let his body fall backwards off the building's roof.

He heard her scream his name and Marcus yell out a profanity as the air rushed past his ears.

 

"SHERLOCK, NO!" Joan screamed and ran. "God, noooo!" 

Marcus, phone in hand ran behind her, dispensing men to the roof and calling for EMTs. 

All too quickly, his body landed with a thud into a dumpster. Before Marcus could stop her, Watson scaled its dirt encrusted side and jumped in after her partner. 

Her legs sunk into the heaps of cardboard and shredded paper headed for recycling, and she fell forward, crawling over to his very still form. "Please, please, please be okay...." Joan whispered as she approached him.

She felt rather than saw Marcus leap in after her. Her full concentration was on Sherlock - he was breathing, he had a pulse. Joan fell back on training and started assessing him for trauma. She called his name and lightly slapped at his cheek. 

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His expression warmed at the sight of her and his hand reached up to lay over hers, "I'm quite alright Watson. No need to worry."

Joan closed her eyes in relief, allowing a tear to slip, as she tried to control the weakness that radiated from her core out to her limbs. Her head moved forward and she let her forehead hover over him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Really, didn't want you to have see that."

"It's okay ... it's okay. As long as you're alright," her whispers met his.

Marcus held back allowing them the moment, until he heard the EMTs' sirens screaming into the alley. "Holmes, don't try to move until the medics check you out."

Sherlock look past Watson, realizing Bell was also there. "Will do, detective." He looked at Joan and gave her a lopsided smiled. The thought occurred to him and he made the mistake of asking, "So, ..." He softly rubbed the top of her hand once or twice with his thumb, "am I forgiven for the Spotted Dick, then?"

Her face turned cold and her steely gaze answered him before her words could. Joan moved her hand out from beneath his and down onto his chest as she sat back on her knees. "No." She patted his chest and watched confusion spread over Sherlock as he tried to process her obvious concern for him with the threats he had expected her to rescind. 

Marcus briefly considered asking, but decided whatever went on between these two in private, was really none of his business.


	3. Obviously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #3: A Cardboard Box: whether it contains human ears or nothing at all, include a cardboard box somewhere in your entry.

Knocking was for strangers. They'd flowed in and out of each other's rooms with no need for permission almost from the day she moved in. Even when they lived apart, locks and doors meant very little - entry was gained one way or another. 

She walked into his bedroom carrying a tray. "Morning." 

His eyes were open and he lay in bed pretty much in the same position she'd left him in last night. Joan had helped him undress, put on his sweats, given him ibuprofen and left the phone within reach in case he needed her.

"How you feeling?" 

Sherlock winced as he moved to sit up. "Like I've been run over by a train ... several trains ...express and local."

"Jumping off a three story building has its consequences." She set his breakfast tray beside him and sat down on the bed.

"You didn't have to. I can get ..." A sharp intake of breath broke his declaration of independence in two; bending his legs proved excruciating. He exhaled, "...up."

Joan shook her head at him, "How 'bout you start slow? Have your breakfast and then we'll see how you feel." 

Sherlock grumbled and reached carefully for his tea. "What's that?" He pointed with his chin. 

"The mail came early today. The usual mess of requests and bills plus this box. Addressed to you."

He put down his tea and picked up the square cardboard box. No return address. Anonymous mail was a serious matter at the brownstone: generic white label, his name and address printed in Courier 12, total weight approximately nine ounces, metered postage, meticulously sealed with packaging tape.

Sherlock looked up at her, "What do you think? It appears too small and light for explosives ...."

"It looks harmless enough, but just in case," she produced a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of her cardigan. "May I?"

"Mmm..." he reluctantly handed the box over to her. 

Joan opened the box with care, removed a layer of crumpled tissue paper and pulled out a small, clear acrylic box containing a dead bee. She examined it. "It's a Euglassia Watsonia." She handed the container to Sherlock and removed the gloves.

He took it, squinting as he inspected the specimen.

Joan pulled out an index card from the box. It grabbed his attention. Cut out words and letters spelled out the message, "Guess who is next? ~M"

Their eyes met as she handed him the card. He couldn't hide the knee-jerk fear the message produced in him. "It's obviously a copycat." She tried to reassure him.

He nodded. "Obviously."


	4. A pale horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got a bit platonically shmoopy .... Apologies if you are not of that persuasion.
> 
> JWP#4: Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Let Death, Famine, Pestilence, or War appear in your entry today in some fashion.

She watched him, hunched over the microscope, laptop open, the dissected remnants of the cardboard box strewn around the bright red table. Sherlock was in pain but would not let that slow him down. The carefully orchestrated threat was more than likely a prank but it galled him that someone would dare to threaten Watson, would dare to taunt him in this manner. 

"Sherlock, let it go." Joan approached him. "It's a juvenile prank of some kind. I'm not in any danger."

He looked up from the microscope, "We do not know that as a certainty. I cannot let this slide. We can not ignore threats, we can not ignore evil. We avert our eyes long enough from this sort of thing and soon enough we will have the Four Horsemen knocking upon our door. ... That reminds me, Father called while you were in the shower. He sends his best wishes."

Joan smiled and rolled her eyes at him. "You are being overly dramatic. Let's just wait and see ..."

"I know you are still angry over the whole spotted dick issue, but I daresay, even with your professed lack of care for me, you would be acting as I am if you perceived a threat to my life ..." 

Sherlock searched her face, waiting for a response. Nothing. 

"...or perhaps you'd see it as a way to be done with me once and for all." He drummed his fingers against the table surface and again, waited a beat, hoping she would protest. Nothing. 

As much as it hurt her, she did not respond. Joan stared back blankly at him. She had spent the better part of the last day and a half taking care of him - undressing, dressing, feeding, medicating, at his elbow. He was well aware of her feelings. She would not play his game. 

His head bobbed and he felt a pang of sadness strike deep inside. Sherlock intellectually understood but found, to his chagrin, he needed the emotional reassurance. Nothing. 

A string of self-berating curses ran through his head. Fool. He could not let emotion cloud his process. A threat sat before him that needed inspection by a clear mind. With a sigh, he turned back towards the microscope and his back muscles spasmed in anger over the abruptness of his movement. Stifling a wince, he quickly brought his hands over his face, rubbing away both the physical and emotional reaction. 

Joan stared at the side of his head. She understood the pain the copycat note had dredged up in him, his fear of losing her as he had once lost the mythical Irene. She tried to stay silent but her voice, soft yet crystal clear, emerged, "Do you really think your immature and stupid actions are enough to make me stop caring about you, stop being your friend. If all it took to drive me away was a bout of your callous and self-serving antics, I would have stopped being your friend years ago. Unfortunately for me, I can see through all that.... through the smoke and brambles .... can see you, ..... see your heart ..."

He looked up and straight ahead into the distance, his eyes growing wider with each word she spoke. As she finished, he quickly looked back at the computer screen with an unfocused gaze. 

Embarrassed by her openness, she stood stock-still beside him. 

A tender silence drew itself around them. His body pulled towards her, ever so slightly towards her and hers towards his. 

The warmth of almost touching, the graze of her white skirt against his tshirted arm, provided comfort she did not realize she'd needed. She had watched him fall to his presumed death, for a few minutes had lost him forever and then immediately repressed all those emotions when his eyes had fluttered open. Dark and heavy, the emotions lay deep within her and Joan swallowed hard against the lump that formed in her throat as they tried to surface. It was alright, she told herself, she did not lose him, would never lose him ..... Her fingertips reached and lightly touched the short short hair at his nape. Sherlock eyes closed. He leaned in towards her touch, and shuddered out the long-held breath, his own fear of losing her still palpable.... The quiet of the moment deepened ....

Explosive bangs at the front door rattled the windows and walls, shaking the locks on their racks. Wrenched back to reality, Joan jumped and Sherlock shot up in front of her as a second volley sounded.


	5. The Sessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a stand alone. Doesn't follow the previous chapters.  
> Implied major character death. 
> 
> JWP #5: A False Moustache: As we know from canon, disguises and secret identities are Holmes' forte, but what about other characters? Involve someone else in disguise in today's entry.
> 
> Kind of a stretch on the prompt.

His legs crossed and hands tightly folded in his lap, Holmes stared straight ahead, silent for several minutes. Dr. Reed waited. From experience she knew he would speak when he was ready.

"She was my fake mustache, of sorts, you see.... I used to call her my disguise ... mmm." He looked up at her, his lips attempting to curve into a smile, eyes wide and raw. Sherlock's gaze dropped and focused on the floor, bobbing his head as he remembered. "When Watson and I walked into a room, I would disappear.... She had this way of catching the light and directing it out in all directions. She could turn on this sort of empathetic glow. People were drawn to her... It left me free to fade into the background and observe ...." 

A quick smile flickered on his face, then dropped away as memories overtook him again. He whispered, "My Watson ..." and shook his head, falling into silence once more. 

Dr. Reed waited.

"Towards the end, I became her disguise, her alibi. .... I can be quite obnoxious. If I sensed she felt crowded or too many questions were being asked, too many demands made on her .... I'd make a grand show of it, become the tyrant they all suspected I was and would whisk her away." His hands cut through the air as his voice took a showman's clip, "'Come Watson! We've work to do!' ... And off we'd go .... Yeah ...."

His eyes brimmed. He batted away the threat, "She didn't want them to see ... didn't want their pity. .... I was so honored that she let me stay, let me help ...." Visions of his partner frail ... weak ... came unbidden ... her eyes ..... her eyes never changed .... his Watson....

Sherlock suddenly stood, brusquely wiping at his face and left her office.


	6. Dim Sum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny entry tonight.
> 
> JWP #6: Food, Glorious Food: A crime/mystery/anecdote/scenario involving food. As complex or simple as you wish to make it.

Stop that.

Stop what?

Don't act all innocent with me. I know what you're doing.

What are you talking about?

I saw how you were staring. 

Paranoia run in your family, Watson?

No. No more than in yours. .... I am not giving you any. 

Wasn't asking. I have my own nutritious meal .... which I would gladly share with you if you'd like. 

Stop it.

Stop what. 

The puppy dog eyes. My mom made these especially for me.

You are quite fortunate. ... I don't really remember my mum's cooking ...

It's not going to work ... (Sigh) .... Open your mouth.


	7. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP#7 - "Epidemic": A word to strike fear into the hearts of men, but one that can be used in reference to giggles as easily as germs. How you choose to employ it is up to you.
> 
> This has barely been proofed, my body is demanding sleep ... So point out problems if you'd like and I'll fix them later. Thx!

The door to the brownstone swung open and Marcus almost jumped back in surprise. 

"Hey , Marcus. Come on in."

Joan Watson stood before him as he'd never seen her before. Her uncombed hair darted and dangled as it attempted to escape the confines of a crestfallen bun. Large glasses on her makeup-less emphasized the dark circles around her eyes and her chapped red nose. Her sweatpants hung big on her, as did the baggy grey fleece hoodie. He wondered if they were even hers. 

She wrapped the red cardigan that sat atop all the layers a little closer to her. "We're in the library." Joan shuffled ahead of him.

"I've got the files you and Holmes requested." Bell followed reluctantly. 

Sherlock looked up from a bowl of soup, took a spoonful and greeted him from where he sat cross legged on the sofa with a hoarse, "Detective." He looked just as bad if not worse than Joan. Draped in a blanket, wearing a pilled dark-striped sweater and torn sweat pants, his eyes were watery and his pale face was accented by his raw red nose and a few days worth of stubble. 

Joan plopped down next to Sherlock, took the soup bowl from his hands and had a spoonful.

Marcus' face couldn't hide the mild disgust. "He ... he just took a... uh ... ate from that bowl," he warned her. 

Joan looked up, "Mmmhmm." She answered as she took in another hot spoonful of chicken soup. "At this point it hardly matters ..."

Sherlock blew his nose loudly into a plaid handkerchief. "Are those the Rosquez files? All of them?"

"Oh," Marcus looked at the files in his hands as if he'd forgotten all about them. "Yes. Here." He took a small step towards the sofa, extended the files to him and then quickly moved back out of germ-jumping reach.

"How's the precinct holding up?" Joan handed the soup back to Sherlock, "here I left you some noodles."

The detective's lip curled slightly as he watched Sherlock give Joan the files and proceed to slurp up the remaining noodles. Marcus was a bit of a germophobe and the communal soup bowl was just plain grossing him out. 

He pulled himself together. "Uh ... the precinct is holding on best as it can. The flu is at almost epidemic proportions; we've a little less than a third of the force out right now." He reached into his coat pocket, searching for the reassuring touch of the plastic bottle of hand sanitizer. 

"That's too bad," Joan reached for the handkerchief and Marcus started feeling woozy.

"Uhm ... Uhm... That's Sherlock's ... He just blew his nose in uh ...."

Joan looked at the plaid cloth in her hand, "Oh." She put it down and her hand dug the sofa cushions between them pulling out her own crumpled plaid handkerchief. She blew her nose and set it down beside her.

Marcus gripped at the small plastic bottle in his pocket. "I'd best be going. Hope you all feel better real soon." He took a wide path around them to exit the room. "Don't get up. I'll see myself out." The top to his hand sanitizer was flipped open before the front door clicked shut. 

Joan picked up her feet and swung them onto the sofa, pushing them under Sherlock's legs in search of warmth.

He flinched. "Watson, your feet are ice cold. Why won't you wear socks..."

"Don't have to as long as you're around," she opened one of the files. Sherlock smiled and purposefully rocked his body towards her so that more of his weight crunched at her feet. Joan nudged and whined, "Sherlock" and he rocked back but made sure her feet were well covered. "Feel like a bloody mother hen..." He muttered and opened one of the files. 

Joan wiggled her toes under him. "My feet get warm enough, I'll go make us tea."

"M' kay." Sherlock picked up a handkerchief, and sneezed into it. "Marcus was acting rather oddly don't you think?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a head canon for a while that Marcus is not only a neat freak but kind of a germophobe and visits to the mayhem that is the brownstone can be stressful for him.


	8. Up on the Roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note - there are references in this story to the past few days worth of news events. Nothing graphic. I'm just using Sherlock as a way to vent a little. 
> 
> Written quickly and I think really it is the antithesis of the prompt.
> 
> JWP #8: The Wonder of the Age: For Victorian Holmes & Watson it was things like telephones and motorcars; for current Sherlocks and John/Joan it’s more likely to be nanotechnology and/or iPhones; 22nd Century Holmes deals with androids and casual Moon travel. (For Sherlock Hound or Basil of Baker Street it’s probably flea powder.) Use or allude to such a modern miracle of the age for whatever age you choose.

"For the love of all that is decent, what the hell is wrong with people." From the media room his voice boomed and reverberated through the house. 

Joan crossed the threshold in time to witness him standing in front of the wall of televisions, remote in one hand, tablet in the other. 

"The stupidity and sheer madness of human beings knows no bounds. Murder, callous purposeless murder for no other reason than lack of tolerance and fear!" He directed the barrage at her. "Your country is barbaric...."

Joan grabbed the remote from his hand and turned off all the sets. "I wouldn't cast stones if I were you. Your country is holding its own on the racist front."

Sherlock sat down. Still browsing through his tablet with one hand, he picked up his phone from the floor and checked for messages. "Point taken. Violence for the sake of violence is rampant world wide ...." He flipped through websites, bringing up image after horrid image. "Iraq, Syria, bombings, refugees wandering from country to country, children dying for a chance at life ..." 

"Sherlock."

"Mark my words, the human race will obliterate itself soon enough ...."

"Sherlock!"

"Nothing to be done.... How does one even begin ...." He shook his head and continued scrolling.

Joan stepped up to him and took his phone and tablet away, leaving him two empty hands and a confused look on his face. 

"That's it." Her voice was stern and calm. "We are disconnecting for the rest of the day." 

"Can't. I'm expecting a call regarding the asp delivery, I've got several emails and texts that need answers and we need to be available to the captain should he require assistance. We cannot disconnect."

"We can and we are. All those things can wait. The precinct can survive without us for half a day. I'll turn off everything as well. Okay?"

"I don't see what good ..."

She stopped him. "We are on overload. We have had a particularly gruesome two weeks worth of cases. The news, the internet, emails, texts ... It all is bad news, it's wearing on both of us... We need a breather." Joan reached behind him, turned off the laptop and flipped the switch on the police scanner. "Go put on a pair of shorts and meet me on the roof. Bring a book if you want."

"Watson, this is a waste of time. I don't think it will help...."

"Now Sherlock!" The tone of her voice stopped his whine. He knew better than to argue.

"Fine. I'll give you half an hour...." He started walking out of the room.

"Wait!" Joan turned to face him, "Asp delivery? Asp as in snake?" 

His face brightened at the question. "Yes. Beautiful little specimens. Not quite as venomous as their Egyptian counterparts but I daresay they will help tremendously with the research."

Joan rubbed that spot on her forehead reserved for Sherlock-induced stress headaches. Without looking up she muttered, "Go, just go get dressed."

 

The late afternoon sun rained gold and orange light across the roof. The weather was warm - steamy but not suffocating. Book in hand and sunglasses in place, Sherlock crossed the roof to where Watson lounged, her own book on her lap. 

Joan smiled at his attire: baggy black shorts, bare chest and red and white striped socked feet in sandals. Sherlock sat down beside her. The thought occurred to him that this whole endeavor might have some merit - his partner in a bikini top for starters.

"Lemonade?" She broke in on his reverie. 

The world below slowly disappeared as they sat in the sun, listened to the bees hum, and talked.


	9. Breakfast Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #9: Quote of the Day: "Please stop petting the test subjects." Use this however this inspires you.

Joan leaned against the kitchen counter, cereal bowl in hand, watching Sherlock and Mason. She crunched another spoonful of the sugary O's - it was Saturday, she allowed herself sugary O's on Saturday. The phone beside her vibrated and she picked up before it rang. 

"Hi, Emily."

"Hi. You busy?" 

"No. Having breakfast. Watching Sherlock milk an asp. What's up?" 

There was silence on the other end of the phone and grumbling from Sherlock at the far end of the kitchen table. "Mason, hold the jar steady...."

Joan shook her head at them. Mason swore he had snake milking experience but now she, and probably Sherlock, were beginning to wonder.

"Em? ... Emily you still there?"

"Uhm, yeah, yeah still here. Just confused. Isn't an asp a snake? How does one milk a snake ...."

Joan smiled into the phone, "He's draining venom from its fangs for his viper research...." 

"Oh...." Emily took a breath and decided further questions wouldn't help. "I thought if you weren't busy this afternoon we could get lunch and ....."

Sherlock's voice interrupted. "Please stop petting the test subjects! It interferes with the venom flow." Mason took his finger off the asp, "Sorry."

Sherlock looked pleadingly at Watson.

"Hey, Em, lunch sounds great. Can I call you back in a few minutes. I need to help Sherlock with something." She pulled the phone away from her ear to the faint sound of Emily's voice pleading with her to be careful. 

Joan hung up the phone, took another spoonful of cereal and made her way over to table. "Hey, Mason. Would you mind if I took over?" She put on the protective gloves and goggles. "I've always wanted to help milk venom from an asp."


	10. The Muse and the Tortoise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ms. Hudson and Clyde
> 
> JWP#10: A higher power: choose a deity from any mythos, religion, or mythology (Tiamat, Zeus, Cthulu, whoever) and use them as an inspiration.

Ms. Hudson would often converse with Clyde as she dusted and tidied, polished and swept. More often than not, she would take him from room to room with her as she worked. She talked to him as she would to any long cherished friend. Clyde would sit still, warmly wrapped in the mellifluous tones of her voice, hanging on to each story she shared. In this way he learned of the world past and present, of philosophy and art, of humans and their joys and their struggles. Clyde loved Ms. Hudson very much, almost as much as his Watson and Sherlock.

When her chores were done, Ms. Hudson would sometimes come sit by his side. She'd take out her knitting and click-clack away as she told him stories of his ancient ones - of tortoises and turtles of long ago, of gods and myths, of his ancestors' role in shaping the world. 

Ms. Hudson told him of Akupara, the Hindu tortoise who carries the world on his back, holding up earth and sea. She told him of the Chinese Black Tortoise, ruler of the north, of his strength and longevity. She told him the Greek story of Chelone, the nymph who refused to leave her home to attend Zeus' wedding and was turned into a tortoise by the god, forever to carry her home on her back. Clyde chuckled at that. 

But by far his favorite was the Greek belief of the tortoise as a companion of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, and of its symbolic representation of fertility. Clyde would smile to himself whenever his Watson and Sherlock sat on the floor with him and let him walk to and fro' between them.


	11. Three's a Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP#11: Threesome: Not necessarily the NSFW kind, but a threesome: Watson being close to and/or working closely with someone besides Sherlock Holmes.

She was surprised to find him in the library, sitting on the sofa, reading. 

"I thought you and your buddies were "exercising" tonight." 

Sherlock, looking rather bored with the contents of his tome, glanced up, "Athena and Minerva are in the midst of verbally settling a philosophical disagreement of sorts. Have been doing so since they arrived." He half heartedly turned a page. 

"Oh." Joan plopped down next to him and perused the stack of books at his side, settling for one of his monographs. She flipped blindly through the pages of his work. 

"I thought you and Apollo had retired for the evening to pursue your own calisthenics." He raised an eyebrow at her. 

"Paulo, you know very well his name is Paulo. I've corrected you several times.

He resignedly acquiesced, "Paulo."

She put down the monograph and swept her hair away from her face. "He received a call from his agent shortly after we went upstairs, something about a GQ modeling assignment. He's been on the phone ever since."

"Ah, my condolences."

"It's alright. I've found myself losing interest in Paulo for awhile now. He's gorgeous and that body. The things he can...."

Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably, "That's alright Watson. I understand..."

"He is just so boring though... Vapid. If I have to listen to one more recitation of his training routine ..." She dropped her head onto the sofa's back. "...ugh, and his protein shake recipe ..."

He leaned towards her and whispered conspiratorially. "Frankly, I'm hoping the argument downstairs doesn't settle and they just go ...." 

The same thought occurred to both of them. Joan spoke first, "Let's go. Let's leave them here. Is that too cowardly a solution?"

Sherlock was on his feet, "Excellent idea. We can send them texts, tell them we've been called away and to lock up after themselves." 

Joan was right behind him. "How about we go to the espresso bar. They're having a jazz night."

Sherlock held her coat for her to put on. "Hurry. I don't want to get stuck here. We can text from the street."

With an animated bounce in their step, Holmes and Watson quietly stepped out into the promise of the evening.


	12. Holding hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is gawd-awful and I apologize - it's a first draft full of exposition - I folded the prompt and forced it in. I wasn't going to write for this prompt but was inspired by damnmydooah's comments in her fic that Sherlock and Joan don't touch enough. (Here go read her fic - it's good - http://archiveofourown.org/works/7466991 ).
> 
> I think when this is all over I'll redo this story over properly but for now it's sort of written so I'm posting it ...
> 
> JWP #12: A Baker's Half-Dozen (six picture prompt).

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi first, extending his hand to help Joan out. She exited the cab and started walking to the crime scene. They still held hands. Marcus tried not to stare. 

"Detective!" Sherlock called out, "I just saw your text. You've solved the murder!"

Marcus smiled, "Yeah. Occasionally we solve one without you two."

"The murderess confessed, I take it."

He took a beat before answering. "Fine, yes. She ran out of the building and confessed. Pretty open and shut. Sorry to drag you out here for nothing."

Joan smiled, "That's alright. We were in the neighborhood anyway." Her hand moved in Sherlock's so that their fingers were now interlaced. Bell couldn't help but stare. 

Sherlock responded to the question the detective didn't ask. He swung his hand and Joan's in front of him. "Therapy." He said, the distaste the word produced visible on his face. "I can only speak for myself, but I have my doubts about it."

Joan rolled her eyes and swung their hands back down but did not let go. "We are going to counseling, a sort of couples counseling."

Marcus' eyebrows went up and his mouth silently formed an "o."

She quickly qualified. "Not that we're a couple in the traditional meaning...."

"None of my business." Marcus put his hands up before him.

Sherlock squinted and watched Joan's face as she continued explaining, flexing his fingers between hers. "We were having uhm, problems. Our arguments were growing louder, longer, more vehement..."

"Threats of bodily harm became common place, as well as the occasional blow..."

Marcus jumped forward, "You hit her?!"

"I would never!" His voice raised in indignation. 

"No." Joan piped up quickly, "I ... I hit him. I mean nothing really awful. A punch on the arm, a slap on the chest..." She cast her eyes down as she talked and Sherlock gave her hand a small reassuring squeeze. 

"The real problem was the constant bickering, loud constant bickering. It was interfering with the work."

"I talked him into seeing Dr. Schuller, a friend recommended him. He interviewed us, tested us...."

"That was an utter waste of time." Sherlock muttered. "Had us look at photos, images of... of a ship under artic waters, a painting of a man in a turban.... a. a..." He turned to Joan, "What else did he show us?"

Joan frowned trying to think back, "uhm, a ceramic frog and uh, a fencer, and .... cupcakes frosted like puppies."

"Yeah, stupid, a complete waste of time." Sherlock shook his head.

Joan gave him a reproachful look and continued. "Dr. Shuller concluded that we don't touch enough. We've lived together for years and yet hardly ever touch. He said it's not natural. That while we are emotionally intimate, we are not physically intimate...."

Marcus' eyebrows involuntarily shot up again.

"No. Not like that." Joan corrected him. "He seems to think that our lack of touch is unnatural, that people who barely know each other touch more than we do and that lack of physicality has caused resentment somehow between us. So we are supposed to maintain physical contact for the next forty-eight hours ... Within reason of course."

"Bathroom breaks and the like." Sherlock nodded his head.

Marcus looked from one to the other, "Is it working?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Hard to tell. It's only been a couple of hours."

"Can't believe you two agreed to this. Sounds a little odd."

Sherlock looked at Watson, "Well, we are a little odd I suppose .... and I suppose there are worse ways to spend the next two days than holding Watson close." 

His sheepish lopsided grimace in her direction made her smile and happily bump her shoulder against his arm. 

One of the officers called for the detective and Marcus gladly made his excuses to the consultants, and walked over to the squad car.


	13. Chasing the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be monsters.  
> I was going to pull out the asps again, but this appeared instead.
> 
> JWP #13 "Nature is red in tooth and claw": Let your entry today feature an element of nature that is less than pleasant.

The clicking of a thousand scales and the buffeting gusts of salty air finally tore Joan's attention away from her partner's contorted form. Writhing in agony on the rocky shore, Sherlock attempted to warn her of the animal's approach, but the words would not form on his lips.

The sack she carried dropped to the ground beside him as Joan reached for the hilt of her silver sword. Fiercely, she pivoted to face the winged creature. Golden and glistening, as beautiful as it was terrifying, it screeched in anger at the intrusion. "He belongs to me! The oracle had so declared!" 

The beast swayed its long tale as it reared itself high into the sky, taking aim at the armored warrior. "Run, mortal woman, run while you can!"

Enraged, Joan stood taller. Her voice exploded from deep within her plated chest, full in its power, "We do not fear thee, dragon. Be gone. You have no power here." She raised her sword high and prepared to plunge it deep into the dark heart of the shimmering lizard. Sherlock, now on his knees behind Joan, watched in terror.

The animal's laugh, like the ringing of a hundred bells, filled the air. It opened its mouth sending forth a sphere of orange flames that enveloped Joan's weapon. The molten metal fell from her hand, puddling like mercury in the sand before her. 

Joan screamed, doubled over, and turned away from her enemy. Sherlock expecting to see the defeated face of his partner, was shocked at the smile on face. 

She whispered, "Give me the sack, and close your eyes. No matter what you hear, do not open them until I say it is safe."

Dumbfounded, he did as he was told. Joan took the sack and reached in, clamping tight on the mass within. She pulled out the blond-tressed head of the Medusa, cast her own eyes to the ground and raised it high before the dragon...

The keen of the dying beast entwined with the cold wails of Moriarty's head as it swung from her hand filled the air, piercing and shrill; reverberating in her chest until her whole body shook. Her eyes clamped shut, she yelled his name out over and over .....

"Watson! Watson!" He shook her again, trying to break the hold of whatever terror had chased her through her dreams tonight. 

With a rattling intake of breath, Joan awoke to the sight of Sherlock's eyes, wide with pain and fear for her. Bringing her breathing under control, she laid her hand lightly on his, "It's okay. ..... It's okay..."


	14. All better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am exhausted. All I can manage is a 100 word drabble.... sorry. 
> 
> JWP14 - Rehabilitation/Recovery: What comes after the whumping? Focus today on the recovery from an illness or injury.

"Hold still just a little longer."

"You know, I was a surgeon. I am fully qualified to remove a splinter."

"Mmmm ... But you are a right handed ex-surgeon and the skills of your sinister hand are most certainly not up for the task.

"Ow!"

"There! Got it." He showed her the splinter before laying it and the tweezers down. He rubbed at the red spot on her thumb, bent and gave it a kiss. "All better." He handed Joan back her hand. 

She stared, amused, wondering how long it would take for him to realize what he had done.


	15. My Dearest Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May Jane Austen have mercy on my soul....
> 
>  
> 
> JWP#15: Throw The Book At 'Em: Include a literary reference in today's work. Make sure that your reading/viewing audience knows what it is, but whether or not any other characters (such as Holmes) understands the reference is up to you.

Joan poured cream into her coffee and stirred. She watched the ivory white and dark brown liquids circle, swirl and become one. 10:00 a.m. ... the morning was off to a late start. Sherlock being away for a few days afforded her more time to sleep and, unfortunately, more time to think. She'd spent the majority of last night on the roof, watching the scintillation of the city's lights as they made their way across the river and sifting through her feelings and the events of the past few days.

This whole business with Frank really meant nothing. She wasn't hurt; perhaps her ego carried a new bruise or two but emotionally, his actions were of little consequence. She did make note to never date within the department again - gossip ran fast and leapt from precinct to precinct. By the next day, all of the NYPD knew about Frank's infidelities. Last night, when she took the time to check her heart and search her soul, she found what troubled her had very little to do with Frank and all to do with Sherlock. 

Joan and Sherlock loved each other.... everyone knew it ... they knew it. A platonic bond deeper than all others, a friendship and connection they'd never experienced with anyone else. The words were never said but the emotion was there between them - strong and pulsating with life. Romantic love seemed the lesser emotion by comparison. Romantic love they shared with the Fionas and the Franks of the world. What they had was different ... or so she thought until last night. 

As the pink of dawn spread overhead and the buzz of the bees began to fill the new morning's quiet, Joan suddenly understood. She understood the feelings she repressed and locked away. Feelings she kept from herself and pushed back into darkness if they dared to stir or make a noise. 

She loved him wholly and completely. He was hers and hers alone. She did not want to share him with anyone else ... The childishness of the thought embarrassed her and her face reddened. Alone, on the roof, as the city awoke beneath her, Joan realized all this meant nothing. She could never act on her feelings, she never would jeopardize what they already had. The night's work, the unraveled mound of yarn that lay at her feet needed to be re-wound into a tight ball and hidden once again from the world.

Joan snapped out of her reverie at the sound of the front door opening and closing. His footsteps followed. She quickly stood, picking up her cup and heading for the back garden. Rarely used and overgrown, he would not think to look for her there. She needed time to compose herself.

 

Sherlock walked into the kitchen. He sought her but would not call out her name. 

Marcus texted him about Joan last night; he was concerned about her. Sherlock had known about Frank's misbehaviors or at least suspected as much and had gone so far as to tell her. She swept his concerns aside. Apparently, Frank was "fun." He scowled as he dropped his valise onto a chair. He only hoped the bastard had not wounded her too deeply. 

He was unsure of his ability to actually say the words to her, to verbalize what he felt. He feared hurting her and their relationship - their friendship came first and foremost. He could never lose her. She was his .... all his ... He stopped and berated himself. Joan was her own person; she belonged to no one but herself. He would be happy if she allowed him to just stand at her side. 

Something caught his eye out in the back garden, some small flutter of something that should not be there at all. Sherlock steeled himself, and strode out. 

"Watson?" At the sight of her, his voice took on a tenderness he could not control.

Joan, caught and with no place to turn, stepped forward. "Hey...." Her smile insecure upon her face. "You're back." Putting down her cup on the rickety gardening table, she crossed her arms before her and resolved to keep emotions well in check.

"Yes." He nodded and searched the ground for fear of looking at her eyes. The moment was awkward and heavy and neither knew how to proceed. 

He spoke up first, "I'm sorry about Frank."

She was surprised, "You heard about Frank? ... Of course you heard about Frank, the whole world heard..." 

Sherlock stopped her, "He was unworthy of you Watson. You must not let it hurt..." 

She cut him off, "No, no.... I'm fine. Seriously fine, he really didn't matter much in the grand scheme, you know ...." 

Relief swept through him, and courage swelled. He took a few steps towards her, searching her face for something, some micro flicker of a muscle that would let him continue. 

Her breathing quickened at his nearness. She would not ruin their relationship. She would not ... 

He lifted his eyes to hers and the words, came when needed and flowed easily. "My dearest Watson .... for dearest you will always be, my dearest, most beloved Watson," he stopped and took a breath searching her eyes for the strength to go on. "I cannot make speeches, Watson ... if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have scolded you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Watson, as well as you have borne with them. God knows, I have been wholly inadequate in the demonstration of my love. But you understand me...."

He stopped and closed his eyes, trying to find a way to accurately communicate his emotions. Joan took a step closer to him, her eyes clouded with tears. Her hand slowly raised towards him, to reach out for what she now understood they both wanted. Fingertips hovered near his cheek ... once she touched his face there would be no going back, no hiding, no running away. 

Joan caressed his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to do an Emma/Elementary fic for quite some time .... Perhaps this was not the right time. The fic is very loosely based on one passage from Emma which I have lifted and with slight altering dropped here


	16. Their Fabulous Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a visitor from his less than sober years. 
> 
>  
> 
> JWP# 16: ”I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British”: The British Isles and Ireland have given the world a vast treasury of fictional characters apart from Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, ranging from Finn MacCoul to Harry Potter. .... Have a character (or characters) from another British work crop up in some way in your offering.

Someone was jiggling the doorknob and rather persistently at that. Joan followed Sherlock as he walked to the foyer and flung the door open. His face registered a painful grimace at the sight of their less than stealthy would-be intruder.

"Sherls!" She gave him a back handed slap across the chest. "Why is you're bloody door locked, darling." Without waiting for invitation, the blonde walked in rather unsteadily, empty martini glass in hand. On spying Joan, the woman handed her the glass, "Vodka martini, sweets, and make it snappy, I'm losing my buzzy edge."

Joan looked at the lipstick smeared glass almost amused at the impudence of their bee-hived guest, "We don't ..." 

"Fine, then forget the martini, just make it vodka." 

Sherlock stepped up and took the glass from Joan's hand, "Watson, this is Patsy. Patsy, my partner Joan Watson. Patsy is an acquaintance from my less sober days." 

Patsy snorted, nudged and winked at him. "Hah, you gone and got yourself a ball and chain. Never would have thought ... Huh." She took the glass back from Sherlock and waived it at Joan. "Vodka, Joansie, it's an emergency!"

Sherlock took the glass once more from Watson's hand, "We don't keep spirits or intoxicants of any kind, Pats. I'm sober."

Sherlock's words caused her to stagger backwards in shock. She grabbed at the staircase rail and sat on the steps. "Bloody hell, this day keeps getting worse and worse."

"Why are you here? What is the matter?" An impatient bounce accompanied his statement.

Patsy looked blankly at him as she tried to remember why she'd come. Her quickly-dropping intoxication level making her a bit hazy. She stood up as she remembered, "Oh, oh! I lost Eddie. One minute she was there and then she wasn't. I thought you could find her for me ..."

"Is she in New York?" 

"Yes. .... Wait, am I in New York?"

Joan looked on in disbelief.

"Give me your phone." Her phone in hand, he turned to Watson, "Sorry about this. I'll have her out of here soon." Sherlock scrolled through Patsy's contacts and dialed.

"Eddie?" Joan could hear a woman's hysterical prattling on the other end. "Eddie! ... Eddie! It's not Patsy, it's Sherlock. Yes, yes ... No ... On the wagon..." He listened some more. "No, Studio 54 is a theatre now ... No! I know! what is the world coming to..." He rolled his eyes at Joan and shook his head. "Listen, Eddie, I'm going to send Patsy your way. Stay where you are. ... Ask the box office, maybe they'll get you a spritzer or something. They sell them in sippy cups these days, might keep you from spilling so much... Stay. There." 

He hung up the phone and looked at Patsy, rather inelegantly asleep against the railing. "Watson, help me pour her into her taxi would you, sweetie?" 

Joan looked at him in shock. 

"Sorry, its Edina. She contaminates all she talks too."

With great struggle, they managed to get their uninvited guest to the cab and send her on her way.

"So," Joan turned to him, "I think there's stories here you've never shared with me."

"And never will... And should you ever come across photos of me in leopard skin pants and black mascara, I ask you discreetly burn them...."

"Wait." She followed after him as he walked into the brownstone, "was this before or after the bleached blonde hair stint?"


	17. ... or not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #17: A Team Effort: Teamwork saves the day, or not.

The glass walls of the precinct's meeting room vibrated from the vehemt slam of the book on the table.

"You're wrong!" Sherlock spoke loudly talking over Watson. "It does not make sense regardless of the anatomical evidence!"

"Oh so now facts and science are irrelevant! What are you basing your results on smoke and entrails?" Her voice topped his as she leaned forward over the array of photographs on the table before him. "The M.E.'s report clearly shows ...."

"She's wrong too!" His volume went up even louder to cover hers. "Stevenson is the only viable suspect. You see that, you just won't admit it!"

"No. As hard as it may be for you to admit, YOU are wrong! Look at the evidence. Johanson is our killer. There can be no doubt!" Her face was turning red with rage. 

"There IS doubt. Look at the rope burn marks. Look! Here, here and here!" He waived the photos in her face. "We have science and facts that clearly dismiss Johanson as the killer!"

"No! Who is the medical expert here!" She leaned in over the table and yelled at him.

Sherlock turned bright red in disbelief that she was throwing her medical degree into the mix but would not be deterred. "You are! But that does not make you right." He slammed his hands on the table and leaned in just as she had.

"Fine! You investigate your suspect and I will mine! You 'll see..."

"I'll see that I am right!"

Gregson opened the door and joined the fray. "Hey! Hey! Keep it down! We're trying to work out here. Take your squabbles home."

They both stopped and stepped back. 

"Sorry, Captain. Watson here is being obtuse, refusing to see what is clearly before her."

"Me!" Her voice rose again. "You are the one..."

Detective Bell cracked open the door behind Gregson. "Roberts just turned himself in on the Angelos' case. Full confession."

Sherlock and Joan both looked at him stunned. 

"That's not possible," Joan shook the M.E.'s report before her.

Sherlock chimed in, "I agree, Roberts could not be our man."

"Well, he is. He confessed and brought in the video he took of himself killing the guy. Dude's a crackpot but he did it alright." Marcus gave the incredulous consultants a thin lipped gloat of a smile and left.

Gregson shook his head at them and walked out of the room leaving his very confused and embarrassed consulting team to analyze were they went wrong.


	18. By my hand, signed this day...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble. I attempted to keep their voices neutral so that you can decide who is saying what .... (Also, I'm not sure the brownstone address is correct - if it isn't, let me know.)
> 
> JWP #18: Handwritten - From "Handwritten" by The Gaslight Anthem  
> And with this pen, I thee wed  
> From my heart to your distress

"Be it known that as of the 18th day of July, 2016, Sherlock Holmes (hereinafter "Sherlock") and Joan Watson (hereinafter "Watson") both residing at 42 Stamford Avenue, Brooklyn, N.Y., agree, and do hereby memorialize their agreement, to be forever bound to one another in all facets of their professional and private lives by their signatures affixed below ....."

Pen in hand they stood before the paper. 

"You realize this is not a legally binding document?"

"Yes."

"We don't need to 'formalize' what is already set in stone ... elsewhere."

"True. But I need the assurance..."

"Then...... With this pen, I .... thee ..... wed."


	19. If a body meet a body ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay I was a little loose with the prompt - this is an AU of Sherlock and Joan meeting for the first time as teenagers, around 1989, while visiting Scotland (a story whose seeds were sown in The Smaller Pieces). Written very fast, with minimal research so feel free to point out any errors. 
> 
> JWP#19: Another World, Another Culture: Imagine if John Watson were from another country/race/culture than the usual iterations of the Ex-Army Doctor we know and love. How would he and Sherlock Holmes have met, how would the differences affect their initial interactions, what might be the same?

This was such a joke. A huge impractical joke that her parents didn't even have a clue they were pulling. Joan had been dragged out of her home, her dearly loved concrete and smog filled New York, a city full of music and culture and life and set out here in, literally, the middle of nowhere. Dalmally, a small Scottish town, whose only claim to fame was its one mile proximity to the ruins of a castle was to be her home for the next month. 

She rearranged the headphones on her Walkman and trudged angrily through the stony landscape. Hills and grass and more hills and nothing else out here. Thank god for music, she thought as she turned the volume up even higher. Joan was a classics girl - at fifteen her teenage sanity was currently being held intact by The Pretenders, Iggy Pop and the Ramones (although Edie Brickell's "What I Am" had become her secret go-to song during the long and quite Scottish nights.) 

Out in the distance, the stony towers of Kilchurn Castle loomed, behind them, Loch Awe. The day was typical of the region gloomy and grey; about the only thing she'd liked so far about the country. 

She walked up a small mound and stopped in her tracks; someone sat about thirty feet ahead of her, motionless and staring out towards the castle. Joan only saw his back but surmised he was possibly a year or two older than her from his posture and clothing. His bleached hair almost matched the color of the dead dry grass around him. An open notebook lay by his side.

She turned off her music, removed her headphones and had quietly set one foot behind the other as she decided what to do. The boy spoke without turning around, "Ach, Ye cannae gie peace anywhaur these days. Be oan yer way, lass!"

"How'd you know I was a girl?" Curiosity forced the question out of her.

The boy turned, his slate blue eyes quickly examining her head to foot, "Oh, your an American. New York City ... possibly, Queens, no?" His Scottish brogue dropped to reveal a very crisp British accent. 

Taken aback at how quickly he had pegged her origins, Joan pushed her thick black bangs away from her eyes to take a better look at him. "And you are just another snotty Brit trying to pretend your not ..." It wasn't much of a comeback but she felt better having at least responded. She turned to walk away. 

"Hold on," he scrambled to his feet. "I wasn't trying to be insulting. I just have this innate ability to piss people off."

His candor caught her off guard and she stopped. He was kind of cute and he wore a Sex Pistols tshirt so he really couldn't be all bad. 

"Your gait as you approached alerted me to your gender. The smell of hair spray and faint odor of a freesia based perfume confirmed it. As did your music choice..." He squinted at her nervously but obviously proud of his skills. 

"Hmmm." Joan tried to not look as impressed as she was. 

The boy extended his hand, "My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

She took his hand and gave it a firm shake, "Joan Watson."

Sherlock gave her a smile, or what he hoped was a smile. His facial expressions ran the gamut from grimace to pained or so he'd been told by one of his "benefactors" at school - the one who'd been determined to beat the smarts out of him. "Care to join me?" He surprised himself with the invitation. He was not generally one to encourage the company of others. 

He took in her appearance as he waited for her answer - shining black hair, coal black denim jacket, jet black eyeliner and mascara, black skinny pants tucked into heavy work boots - the girl was a tiny thing but fierce looking. He became aware of his heart beating faster. 

A smile broke across her face and he suddenly felt a weight lift from his shoulders, a feeling akin to the elation of finding the solution to a long worked on problem swelled within him.

"What are you doing out here, if you don't mind my asking?" Joan walked to where he had been sitting and knelt scanning the landscape before her. 

He plopped down beside her. "Well, if you are asking why am I here in Scotland, that would be because father has banished me, placing me in the care of my aunt for the summer as punishment for an incendiary incident." He bit his lower lip and nodded at the ground as he recalled the boathouse fire. "Totally unintentional, I assure you."

Joan glanced at him, "You blew something up?" Her regard for him grew in her rebel teenage eyes. 

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded. "Not on purpose of course, but the blaze was magnificent." 

She giggled and it encouraged him to continue describing the damage wreaked. It was a rare occurrence for him to find someone to listen to his stories.

Joan, usually a bit reserved and quiet among those she did not know, found herself asking questions and conversing with this boy as if they were old friends. 

She filled him in on her own exile. "My stepfather is doing research for a book featuring the castle," she pointed towards the structure. "He thought it would be a great experience and brought my mom and me out here on vacation. My brother lucked out. He stayed back home to finish his summer school classes."

Sherlock squinted at her and teased, "Ye dornt loch scootlund much dae ye lassie?"

"No, it's beautiful. I guess ... I don't know. There's not much for me to do. I've read every book I brought with me ..."

"I'll loan you some of mine. My aunt has a good library as well." The ease he felt around this girl, to volunteer to loan her his cherished books, was a completely new and rather heady experience. 

"That would be wonderful." Her enthusiasm at his offer brought both to an awkward moment of silence, afraid they'd showed their true selves too quickly, each waited for the ridicule that they both separately encountered from their peers. 

Sherlock broke the silence. "You asked what I was doing here earlier," he looked back out towards the ruins. "I'm on a bit of a stakeout." He leaned in and whispered dramatically, "I've come to believe the castle there is the centre of some rather nefarious goings-on."

Joan's eyes lit up. "Really? Why? What have you seen? Maybe I can help." 

"You're interested?" He could not control the happy lilt of excitement in his voice. He cleared his throat, and took on a more mature tone, "Well, wait, I don't want to put you in danger..."

"No, Sherlock, I can help." She went on to regale him with her knowledge of criminals and crime feuds from back home. He listened mouth agape. 

"Do you have a curfew, Watson?" he asked. "Most of the activity seems to take place after midnight."

"Yup. I have a curfew but I also have a first floor bedroom with a nice big window and parents who are heavy sleepers." She lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head at him.

"Alright. Meet me outside the church in Dalmally at 11:30 tonight and we'll hike back here together." 

Joan was on her feet. "Okay! Its a deal. I'll see you then." She smiled and hurriedly made her way back up the hill.

From behind her she heard his voice call out, "Watson! ... Watson! Bring a torch!"


	20. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #20: Turn of the Tide -"There is a tide in the affairs of men" - Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

This was the moment. He could no longer wait. Ask! Say the words! It terrified him to lay himself so open but Watson was soon set to walk away and that terrified him even more. She could not ask.... would not. It was contrary to her nature ... he understood. She could not say the words so he would say them for her ... for them. **"Rather I would ask you to consider a proposal. Stay on permanently. Not as my sober companion, but as my companion ..."**

 

_There is a tide in the affairs of men,_  
_Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune._  
_Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries._  
_On such a full sea are we now afloat._

 

Her decision was made and she had to tell him. But the words would not form. Allowing herself what she wanted scared her..... How could she say the words and not crumble with embarrassment.... He'd been patient ... didn't pressure her ... waited. And that scared her all the more ... how long before it was too late ... she'd lost so many other things in life, she would not lose this: **"I like to be paid on Thursdays ...."**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elementary, season 1, "Details." The proposal and acceptance scenes.


	21. A natural arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm tired, reeeeeally tired, and this took longer than I thought (I started off to write a drabble and well, it took off on its own....) Anyway, forgive the typos, errors and shmoop ...
> 
>  
> 
> JWP#21 Song Salute: Choose one of the following songs/song titles to inspire your story today.  
> I chose "8. You saw me standing alone" - Blue Moon

Wedding celebrations, especially elaborate and ostentatious wedding celebrations, were something he eschewed and given half a chance, railed against with great relish. And yet, here he stood. Sherlock struggled against the stiff collar of his tux shirt, adjusted the too tight black tie and found himself a quiet corner from which he could observe. 

Regard for the Captain and a sense of obligation (plus some pointed prodding from Watson) brought him here. The Captain's younger daughter had chosen to join the delusional masses who considered matrimony a viable lifestyle choice and they were all here to cheer her on down the road to ruin. 

Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself and nodded politely as Cheryl Gregson passed by and asked him if he was doing alright. Watson had instructed him, threatened him really, to not say one negative word to anyone. The evening was not about him but about the Gregson family, she said, and he was to enjoy himself or at least give the appearance of doing so or face the consequences. She was not one for idle threats. 

He stood quietly in his corner and watched Marcus and Watson dance. They made a handsome couple, he grudgingly admitted to himself. They had spent the last half hour on the dance floor. A faint smile crossed his face as he watched her happily twirl by. 

Sherlock retreated further into the shadows, eventually making his way out onto the empty balcony. The lush grounds of the Long Island country club, dark green and deep blue in the moonlight, spread before him. Taking the small staircase down, he attempted to distract himself by identifying the variety of foliage and flora before him.

"What are you doing out here?"

He jumped at the sound of her voice so near at hand. Watson, hands in the pockets of her ball gown, stood over him, her face registering concern. Sherlock bounced up and handed her the specimen he had been examining. 

"I believe its a variety of honeysuckle. The fragrance is rather more delicate than others I've come across in this area." 

"Ah, of course," she teased. "What else would you be doing ..." Joan held the flower close and inhaled. "Hmm, you're right. Its fragrance is rather delicate."

He tried not to stare at her. Moonlight fell across her shoulders ... the curve of her neck ... highlighted her cheekbones ... her eyes .... Sherlock cleared his throat attempting to break the spell. "Why aren't you dancing?"

Joan put the small flower in her upswept hair, "Marcus wore me out. He's a few years younger than we are..." She smiled. "I pointed him in the direction of Cheryl's niece."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded. The music swelled in the ballroom and spilled out the open doors towards them. The singer crooned softly in her best Billie Holliday impression ...

_Blue moon you saw me standing alone_  
_Without a dream in my heart_  
_Without a love of my own ..._

"Dance with me?" She put her hand on his arm and moved closer.

"I ... I thought you were tired." Sherlock weakly protested but his hand moved to her waist. They rocked lightly to the orchestra's sweet strands. Her hand found its way to his shoulder, the other into his hand. 

At first, they swayed, finding the rhythm and moving closer as the awkwardness of touching fell away. Joan gently placed her head onto his shoulder, his cheek smoothed across her hair and they danced slow circles through the dewy close-cropped grass.

As the music swelled and grew, they swept larger arcs across the lawn. Highlighted in the pearly moonlight, long indigo shadows curling about them, lost in the moment .... 

_Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for_  
_You heard me saying a prayer for_  
_Someone I really could care for..._


	22. Ann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This is NOT an Elementary fic. I'm trying to step out, waaaay out, of my comfort zone. This story is set in the ACD universe and I'm writing, or attempting to write, in a child's voice, in first person, in present tense. I am not sure I succeeded in keeping it in character, in proper tense or even interesting but I tried. Oh, and my research was extremely minimal so excuse any errors in speech & manner for the time...
> 
> JWP#22: Shine Yer Shoes Guvnor? Take a child’s-eye view of Holmes and/or Watson or their world, in any version. It can be the POV of an Irregular, the child of a wealthy client, Olivia Flaversham, or Young Sherlock Holmes for that matter.

A second group of men have come to the house to look at where Sir was found. The first group, the constable and his men, took notes and then took the body away. Mum and I watched from the top of the stairs. It was very sad, very sad. Sir was always kind to mum and me.

These men who are now examining the hall, they aren't police. Cook told me all about them earlier as she kneaded and floured and did whatever else you do to dough to make it bread. She said the great detective, Mr. Holmes, was going to investigate. "He'll get to the bottom of this if anyone can. I've read all about Mr. Holmes..." She'd winked and nodded, slapped at the dough and said nothing else.

I think the tall, thin one must be Mr. Holmes. He is inspecting the carpet and the wooden floors, the hall tables and the doors. He reminds of a bird the way his eyes quickly move from one thing to the next. The man with him, the one with the mustache, observes Mr. Holmes rather like Mr. Holmes observes everything else.

Oh! .... Why is he entering the library! My heart is beating faster. He comes out and looks around once more. I make myself small. 

"You there, girl!" My face flushes red. ..... How did he see me? No one ever notices me. Up here on the stairs behind my mum, I should be invisible to the likes of him. He's pointing at me and motioning, "Come down here, please."

My mum pokes at me and I jump forward. "Yes, sir."

I stand before the gentleman trying not to meet his eyes. 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend, Dr. Watson." I murmur a how'd you do and he continues looking at me, "How old are you, seven? Eight?"

From the stairs, my mum answers for me as I've lost my courage. "She is nine, sir. Small for her age ...."

Mr. Holmes looks at her sharply. "Let the child answer for herself." He turns back to me, "What is your name?"

"Ann." I manage to whisper. 

"Do you spell that with an 'e' ?"

"No, sir. No 'e' - A N N that's all." I manage to meet his eyes and realize he knows. He's found me out. 

"Ah, you are able to write and read? Good for you!" He looks up at his friend and smiles. "So Ann, why don't you come into the library and tell me what you saw?" Mr. Holmes takes great steps and disappears into the library. 

My heart is beating in my ears, tears are forming in my eyes. Does he know? Should I tell him? Should I lie?

His friend, Dr. Watson, smiles at me and pats me on the shoulder. "It's all right. He seems rather ferocious but he's quite kind." I walk with him into the library.

Mr. Holmes is sitting on the ottoman with the atlas on his lap. "Is this more or less where you were," he asks. 

How could he know? I don't know what say... I can't lie, he already knows the truth... I take a breath. "Yes," I answer meekly. "All my work was done. I ... I come in here late at night to read after every one has gone to bed. I ... I'm very careful ..." I hang my head waiting for the reprimand.

"Ann? Ann, look at me," Mr. Holmes peers closely at me. "Tell me what you heard and saw."

Tears drop out of my eyes and I can't stop them. "I ... I didn't see anything but I heard them arguing. ... Something about money owed for services. They both whispered but I could tell they were quite angry...."

"Do you know who the other man was?" His voice sounds kinder now. Dr. Watson gives me his handkerchief and I wipe at my eyes. 

"Yes. Tom, I recognized his voice.... It was Tom from the livery service. He comes round quite often in the evenings to visit."

Mr. Holmes looks at Dr. Watson. They don't say anything but they nod at each other. 

"It sounded like they were fighting and then I heard something heavy drop to the ground. That's when I put the book away and went out the other door."

"Did you tell anyone what you heard?"

I shake my head no and keep staring at the ground. "I was too scared to ..."

Dr. Watson's hand is at my shoulder, "It's alright, Ann. Quite all right. No reason to fear. We will make sure no harm comes to you or your mother. You are very brave ..."

Mr. Holmes is on his feet and talking the policeman who has been standing in the doorway. "We need to find this Tom fellow immediately...."

Dr. Watson walks me out of the library and up to my mum explaining what just happened. She looks sad and worried. Dr. Watson tells her everything will be alright, he will assist us in finding suitable positions. Down in the hallway I can see Mr. Holmes' long legs pacing as he gives more instructions to the police officer.


	23. Case sera sera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yup. I went there. 
> 
>  
> 
> JWP#23: The Lowest and Highest Form of Humour: Use a pun in your entry today.

The wall over the library fireplace is layered with photographs, notes, receipts, bits of colored string ... all pinned, taped and otherwise attached to a map of the eastern seaboard.

Sherlock and Joan stare at it deep in thought and analysis. Suddenly Sherlock lunges forward and pulls off a photograph, waiving it in front of Joan's face.

"Him!" He states triumphantly. 

"Him? Why him?" Joan takes the photo and studies the man's face. "Do you know how many men named Juan live in this area. There's probably over a million!"

Sherlock takes back the photo and shakes it before her, "Yes, but he, he is our Juan in a million!" He stands quite pleased with himself and waits for her response. 

Joan stares at him expressionless, finally turning and leaving the room.


	24. Science!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #24: “Nothing shocks me. I’m a scientist” (from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom)--use this in the entry today, either at the beginning, end, or middle.

Professor Wolfston reviewed the data and sourly threw it back on the desk, “Nothing shocks me. I’m a scientist." 

Holmes and Watson side-eyed each other. 

Watson spoke up before something rude could erupt from her partner's lips. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

Sherlock, showing immeasurable restraint, waited until the office door clicked behind them to launch into his tirade. "Obviously a charlatan or a complete fool. What kind of man, or in this case woman, of science would not be awed by the complexities, the mysteries, the shock of this discovery. She either has seen the data before, and therefore our prime suspect, or is an idiot."

"My money is on idiot."


	25. SexBlanketBabe Strikes Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a followup to last years' JWP stories. You may want to read them first so this makes sense (it makes no sense, let's be honest) - links at the beginning of the chapter. 
> 
> JWP#25: Trope Trainwreck!: Pile on as many tropes as possible in one fic

> [SexBlanketBabe Gets Kudos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4250373/chapters/10159424)  [First story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4250373/chapters/10049348)  [Second story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4250373/chapters/10114625)
> 
>  

"Okay, that's it. I give up. I've got nothing. It's all been done."

"Hold up, hold up .... here ... How about we give the Joan character feathers."

"Feathers? Like in her hair?"

"No, no ... Like she has wings and she's preening while she talks to the Sherlock character? And ... And he is like uhm... Part Cthulhu or something and he has tentacles peeking out from under his jacket?"

"Have you lost your mind ..."

"No, look, other writers use these tropes and AU things all the time. We could have them pretend to be married for a case and then they get locked in a closet and ...and uh ... Oh wait, wait ... I know, have Marcus rescue them except the full moon is rising outside the window and he turns into a werewolf and the only way they can stop him is to have sex, all three of them ... in the closet..."

Joan's mouth dropped open in complete disbelief. She collected herself before she spoke. "Sherlock, I appreciate your trying to help but I don't think anyone is going to read ..."

"Watson the only thing that your readers will remember is that our characters, you, me and Marcus had sex in a closet. Sex sells Ms. SexBlanketBabe - your kudos and hits reflect it. Your numbers have been through the roof. You've demolished that Nairobiwonders person ...."

Joan shook her head. "I suppose. Although I think we're getting carried away here. ... But I guess we can't back down now ...."

She opened her laptop, "Okay, so where exactly are these tentacles of yours supposed to be ...."

Sherlock gave her a lascivious leer, "Let me show you."

Joan smiled and set the laptop aside. "Ooooh yes, research is important, we want to get this just right." She took hold of his hand and led him towards her closet, "Do you think we should call Marcus?"


	26. Watson and Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Holmes -   
> Canon, Granada, Elementary, BBC Sherlock
> 
> Sorry, I'm running on the barest whisps of fumes. Best I could do.
> 
> JWP#26: Elementally, My Dear Watson: Earth/Air/Fire/Water. Involve one or more of them in your entry today.

Earth  
The ground beneath me having given way, I found myself off balance and to my dismay, falling. I tumbled in a most humiliating manner down the small embankment and onto the muddy shores of the creek. "Watson?" I could hear the mix of concern and amusement in my companion's cry. 

 

Air  
Great gusts of ice cold wind pushed against the two men. Holmes and Watson determined to reach the manor before dark, pitched and angled, held on to their respective hats, and forged ahead.

 

Fire  
The flame erupted upward in a small flare of blue. Exhausting itself in a few seconds time, it descended back round its charred log and regained its orange hue. Sherlock and Joan worked silently before the blaze, the dismembered pieces of their case strewn before them. 

 

Water   
The sprinkle of cool droplets changed into a heavy and cold downpour. Though the shorter of the two, John opened the umbrella and held it aloft, effectively covering both of them. Sherlock, engrossed in the details of the case, took his companion's actions in stride.


	27. I thought you called them Johnnies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stretched the prompt once more. Hopefully this works.
> 
>  
> 
> JWP#27: Thx 4 Nothing: Holmes has never been known to write letters where a telegram would serve, and Sherlock would rather text than talk. But the easy way is not always the best way. Show a time where a communication shortcut did more harm than good.

She picked up her phone and texted Sherlock:

"Home in an hour. Stopping at store. Need anything?"

Joan set the phone down and placed the last of the papers in the file. Marcus, beside her at his computer, clicked away on his report. 

She squeezed the last file into the Bankers Box, stood and picked it up to deliver to Gregson's secretary. She took a few steps only to have her phone chime.

"Marcus?" She motioned to towards the phone on the desk with her chin, "Is it Sherlock?"

"Yup." He raised an eyebrow and read the text to her: "Dpnds on ur plns 4 2nite we'll need xtra rbbrs if like last." 

He showed her the phone. "Is that rubbers or robbers - with Sherlock both are equally possible."

Joan came back and dropped the box on the desk. She took her phone from his hand just in case Sherlock was in a verbose mood and continued his text. 

Marcus, leaning on his elbow, looked intrigued and amused as he waited for her response. 

"Rubbers. ..... He meant rubbers. He's British - rubbers mean erasers in the U.K. I ... Uh ... I made a lot of mistakes last night and he's just trying to be funny." 

She smiled and hoped he believed her. Joan put her phone in her pocket, picked up the box and walked quickly away before any more questions could be asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My quick research revealed that condoms are called Johnnies or Rubber Johnnies in the U.K. (Correct me please if that is not the case).


	28. April is not the cruelest month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #28: Musical Quote/Prompt "In July the sun is hot; is it shining? No it's not." - Flanders & Swann: A song of the weather.

Joan Watson is a patient woman, some would say almost saint-like in her ability to accept and forgive. Prove it, you say? Well, Sherlock Holmes is still breathing and has not met an early demise by her hand. Not yet anyway. 

::::::::

The city was experiencing a July hotter than any on record. Steamy days, cloud covered and grey interminably paraded by, with temperatures that reached the high nineties and more than one occasion stretched on tip toes to poke at the low hundreds.

Today was one of those days, a day where any article of clothing, no matter how organic or breathable the material claimed itself to be, stuck to the body like a wet plastic bag. Joan had been out with a private client on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. After several hours of zigzagging through Prospect Park in search of what she now realized was this woman's sanity, Joan quietly returned the retainer to her client and wished her the best of luck. 

Irritated and sweat drenched, she got herself home with the tantalizing visions of a cold shower and a bucket of ice cream, preferably eaten alone on the roof, shimmering before her, spurring her onward. 

Joan peeled the less than fresh smelling clothes off her less than fresh smelling body, donned her robe, grabbed a fluffy towel and headed for the bathroom. She pulled back the shower curtain .....

"SHERLOCK!" The cry was such that Trevor next door, even through the soundproofed wall, jumped and then resignedly shook his head. 

She did not have to call her partner's name twice. By the time she'd clicked the last consonant, he was galloping down the stairs.

He burst into the bathroom and was relieved to find her standing by the tub, fuming. "Oh good! I was afraid you'd stepped in." 

Joan's voice took on that quiet edge, the one he knew from past experience to be a sign of imminent explosion. "Why are there fish in the bathtub?"

"Well, those aren't just any fish. If you'll look closely at their lower jaws you'll note the sharp teeth typical of piranhas but these have been crossbreed with ...."

Her livid whisper stopped him in mid-explanation. "Piranhas? You stocked our tub with piranhas and didn't tell me." She took a step forward and he took a step back.

"In my defense, you came home early. The aquarium is almost set up. I'll round them up in no time and ..." Sherlock realized that this was not the time for rational explanations. The situation called for appeasement. "Why don't you go up on the roof for a few minutes while I get them into their new home, hmm? There's a lovely breeze up there. I'll bring you up some iced tea...."

"Ice cream."

"Okay, I'll bring you a bowl of ice cream...."

Joan sighed and, towel in hand, started walking out of the bathroom. "Just bring me the bucket of ice cream and a large spoon..." she called over her shoulder.


	29. Sinister Cargo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #29: Arr! Arr! ARRR! Arr! Arr! Send Holmes and/or Watson down to the dockyards, or away to sea, or aboard a ship. Sinister cargo, sinister crew? Does a sailor come to them for help, or is there mischief brewing down at the harbour warehouses? It's up to you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, this prompt was a struggle. As is probably quite evident, I've never actually read Bram Stoker's Dracula.

"I'm standing alone at the end of a long pier ... a storm, wild and fierce, is raging. The sea is dark .... steel grey, waters boil with turbulence. The shrieks of the wind ring in my ears and I try to keep my eyes open against the rain that stings and stabs at my face and body. 

Out in the nebulous distance, out where the clouds and sea meet, the dark outline of a ship forms, a tall ship, its sails unfurled and cracking in the wind. It pitches and lurches, threatening to capsize with each pounding wave that batters at it's wooden hull. I am immobile. It is heading directly for me at a tremendous rate of speed and I cannot move. 

I momentarily close my eyes against another gust of wind and it's accompanying water, opening them to find the ship now docked before me. Its name carved at its side - Demeter. 

There is not a soul on board that I can see, except for the figure of a man strapped to the wheel. I find myself on the deck now, staring at this man. I realize he is me. Half dead, this alternative me clutches an empty syringe in his hand. 

Out of the bowels of the ship, a giant hound leaps out, snarling and baring its teeth, it rushes past me. I turn and see you standing on the pier where I had just been standing. The murderous beast is running towards you and once more I am frozen to the spot. I cannot move, cannot protect you. I yell your name to warn you and uhm ... That's where I woke up and woke you up as well I take it."

"Mmm," she lay her head on his chest and his arm protectively circled her shoulders. "All these years, and she still haunts both our dreams." 

"Mmm." He answered drowsily. 

Comforted, sleep overtook them once more.


	30. The Brownstone at Two in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #30: A Good Question - "Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?"

Footsteps, ascending from the downstairs office, intruded on the night's quiet.

"Do you have any chloroform? I only need a small amount."

"Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?" Sherlock looked up from his laptop to take a good look at his partner. Watson stood a bit disheveled which was highly unusual for her even at this hour. "When did you last sleep?"

She shook her head and dismissed his question, "Nevermind. I think I can make a substitution ...." Watson pivoted and exited the kitchen as quickly as she'd come in.

Sherlock stared after her, concerned for her well being but more intrigued as to what she was doing and why she wasn't sharing it with him. He rose from the table and went down after her, "Watson, wait .... I have a small bottle of chloroform in the black cabinet in the corner...."

He ran down the stairs after her. His evening had just taken a turn for the better.


	31. Are the stars out tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct continuation of Chapter 21 A Natural Arrangement- reading it first might help
> 
> JWP#31 Once More, With Feeling: Music has always had a major role in the lives of the Baker Street denizens. Use or allude to some form of music – music-hall, Wagnerian opera, Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman,” Moriarty’s deadly music-box in the Basil Rathbone films, whichever instrument Joan Watson played (because you KNOW she played something) – in your offering.

Gregson leaned on the balcony railing, jacketed forearms flat against the white marble and watched them. It was an odd sight. Silhouetted in the moonlight, Holmes and Joan danced as if they had not a care in the world.

Marcus came up and stood beside him. "Is that Sherlock and Joan out there?"

"Yup. Those two have the oddest relationship ...," Gregson smiled as Joan twirled and Sherlock dipped her. "But it seems to work for them."

As the last strands of "Blue Moon" floated out across the lawn, Sherlock and Joan separated. He bowed from the waist in courtly thanks for the dance. Amusement shone from both their faces. Joan raised her gown slightly and curtsied, tilting her head in acknowledgment of his gesture. As she rose, her eyes cut to the right of Sherlock and he naturally followed her gaze.

"Lampyridae!" he announced happily. Within seconds, both were on their knees, scouring the dewy lawn for another tiny flash of light.

"What are they doing?" Gregson and Bell watched as the couple rose and swatted the night air.

Sherlock pounced, hand cupped, and much to both their surprise caught the beetle in mid-flight. The firefly glowed bright yellow in his hands as he opened them so Joan could see. She put her hand up and he tilted the bug on to it. The firefly stunned by its capture stayed on her finger like a golden ring, intermittently glowing. In awe, they watched the insect's flickering light before finally encouraging its flight, then followed after it in search of more of its companions.

Snippets of their conversation, their voices light and joyful, carried across the lawn. Sherlock was timing the intervals between flickers as Joan made note of the patterns. Bell turned to Gregson and smiled, "You know, they really were made for each other." From inside Cheryl called out, "Tommy, we're getting ready to cut the cake." Both men dutifully turned and answered the call.

The music started up once more and swept out into the night. The singer softly sang, low and sweet....

_My love must be a kind of blind love_  
_I can't see anyone but you ...._  
 _Are the stars out tonight_  
 _I don't know if it's cloudy or bright_  
 _I only have eyes for you dear_


	32. On asps and piranhas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not based on a prompt, just needed to write. This references the asps and piranhas in some of the stories found here so I put it here as a bonus story. Thanks for reading!

It was one of those rarest of evenings where they sat at the kitchen table and together enjoyed a home cooked meal!

They chatted easily as they ate .... about the past few days work ..... about politics ..... about the environment .... about what was Trevor wearing on his head this morning as he left for work. Trevor had proven himself a source of amusement and wonder for both of them. 

A thought occurred to Joan, "Hey, what happened to the asps? I haven't seen them in a few days."

Sherlock gave her a thin-lipped smile. "More stew? It's an Ancient Egyptian recipe." He looked at her with forced wide-eyed innocence. 

Joan stopped, fork halfway to her mouth and looked at him. A quick assessment, a smirk and she continued eating. "That ruse worked when we first got Clyde but not now. I know better. I know you better."

"Fine." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "I sent the asps off to a zoological society in Des Moines. By the way, we are having fish and chips for dinner tomorrow. They wouldn't take the piranhas."

Joan laughed and shook her head but just in case made a mental note to check the aquarium upstairs before dinner tomorrow.


End file.
